Sweet Child of Mine
by KitCatesby
Summary: As the only daughter of a four child household, Helena lives alone with her three brothers and her coma-induced father. Miles away from civilization, the four siblings fight to survive. But there's a sin rising behind the walls; one that's so unspeakable, yet so divine that the two committing it hardly recognize it as such. Takes no place in time. Includes brother/sister incest. M.


"Sweet Child of Mine"

oOo

Out of the four of us, Destin was born first. He came into the world screaming and kicking and wailing for three straight weeks, until father woke with an anger one night and rocked the crib harshly. Momma complained to Dod that that's what made Destin be so quiet for fourteen years. He was fourteen the year Momma died, so she never got to see if his odd way changed. It didn't; Destin is nineteen now.

Next came Calver, a bright little boy and the second son of my father. He was coddled more by both parents, only because he didn't scream as much when he was born and also because he had _character_, as Dod liked to call it. Calver is seventeen, as am I.

That same year, I came unexpectedly and unwanted, a pain for Momma, who was just then healing up from Calver. I was Dod's favorite, I was his only girl. He used to take me out into the back yard and throw me up way way way into the air and catch me. That was long before the accident; long before he couldn't wake up.

Manson is the youngest, at the age of fifteen. He's a simple child, but not in the sense that he's slow. He does not like loud things, he does not care for fighting, he likes to comply instead of defy. He had been that way since he came out.

I was twelve when Momma got the epidemic and died. We've always lived, isolated, in the middle of the vast, cold wilderness. So when Dod rode off that same night to deal with the drink, we were left alone for half a week, in the house with the dead body of our mother lying on the bed, her skin gray and her lips blue and the flies swarming around her.

Destin held me to him then, whether for my strength, his strength, or to share both of ours, and Calver took Manson out into the woodlands because Calver was in no state of right mind to go alone. Destin's voice, soft and barely used, whispered, "Things will get better. They can't get worse."

But Destin lied because five months later, Dod was still on the drink. He tried to milk Grehtta, our dairy cow, and was kicked in the head. Dod did not die, but he was not our Dod anymore.

In the mornings, I spoon oats into Dod's open mouth and hope he'll chew them. It's hard feeding him—often the food choked him and I had to help him get it back up and start all over—but no one else wanted to help with that. Destin, the leader of our wild orphanage, was usually miles away, on a four-night journey to get food to last us a few more weeks. Calver spent the mornings out back, skinning whatever game he and Manson had killed. It didn't matter to me that the animal was dead, after awhile, because the pelt meant traders and traders meant money for food.

I missed Destin. He never talked much and he was always out of the house, but when he was home, we'd gather at the floor around the fire and he'd boil tea and we'd drink it in a silence that only Destin's presence made comfortable. Manson, who was still mentally immature, would tell a story that would ultimately be a lie. He liked to lie, casually, because none of us had ever taught him it was bad. Well, Destin had tried but wasn't really one to enforce things he saw to be relatively harmless. Calver always called him out on it, anyway, and as the two of them would fight it out, Destin would finish his tea, strip his clothes, and go to bed.

I slept on the top floor, in the loft of the house. Dod came home on the second month of the drink and roared at the lot of the boys that if one of them even thought about touching their little sister, they'd be damned to hell and that he'd skin them alive and sell their pelts. Calver had taken Manson out into the woodlands because Calver was in no state of right mind to go alone. Destin went to bed early that night and would not look at me for the third month of the drink.

After Destin would strip his clothes, and after I was sure the other two had stripped and were in bed, I was to go upstairs and do the same, out of sight. I preferred it this way.

Every night I sleep in my gown and my long socks that Destin had bought me on his sixteenth trip into town. I wore them often, in case he asked if I did. I loved them; I loved him. He was my older brother, my favorite of the three, and I wanted to make him happy.

The sheets were warm and I was warm, but I only thought "I could be warmer". Because I was a young woman now and I craved another body. Destin was the only one who went into town, the only one who met other people, so I didn't know what to expect of other boys outside of my brothers. To me, they were the three types of men. Calver: loud and proud, blunt and boisterous, easily angered and ready to fight, haughty, stubborn, rude, crude, and degrading. Destin: smart, witty, responsible, approachable, kind, thoughtful, dependable, and loyal. Manson: Simple, moldable, controllable, timid, and following.

Calver was short but strong, muscled and firm, whereas Destin was taller and skinnier, but nonetheless built to fight and bare weight on his strapping shoulders. Manson was too undeveloped for me; his body was almost that of a girl's; with thin arms and a skinny waist. Even though I knew all this, I tried not to imagine one of them when I by myself.

With only two options, I usually tried to imagine something in-between.

My hands would reach up and grab my chest, squeezing and fondling until the bubble of warmth spread in against my lips and my hands travelled down there. One hand had to be used to cover my mouth, in case one of my brothers heard, and the other prodded and twirled until I felt my hips lift off the ground and my mind sore far above me.

Then I would collapse.

This morning, I awoke to Destin's return. He was sitting at the wooden table, drinking warmed tea and writing something down. I could neither write nor read, but Momma knew how and taught Destin before she had the rest of us and grew weak. That's how the epidemic got her.

"You're awake," he states, not looking up. I sit down across from him and bury my cold toes under the blanket covering his legs. His feet are warm and flinch when my cold ones touch them. "Are you hungry?"

"What is there?" I ask, looking at the patch of skin that's broadly displayed out of a tear in his undershirt. I can see little black curls just peering out and focus on them for too long.

"Bread," he says, and he sounds sad. I brush my toes up his leg some.

"Bread is good."

"Bread is better than nothing," he elaborates, offering a smile without looking up from his writing. It's a terrible penmanship, but I can't read the words, so I'm sure they make up for it. My feet are warm now and settle against his bellow the blanket. "Calver will not think the same way, unfortunately."

"Calver can shove a pole up his arse," I say. He looks up at me like he's my father and he's telling me cursing is not ladylike.

"Oh, what do I care about ladylike things when I've never met another lady in my life?"

"You knew our mother," he says, looking straight at me. This made me sad and angry and I pulled my feet out of the warmth. Standing, I walked to the other boys' beds and shook them awake, "Up, up, there's bread."

Calver swatted my hand away and said, "Get back, Helena, go away,"

"There's bread," I said.

"Shove the bread up your arse."

This hurt my feelings, too, and I looked to Destin for his assistance, but he was writing his words. Silently, I moved to Manson, who rolled over with sleep in his eyes and asked, "Is there food?"

"Yes, Manny."

"Is it meat?"

"No, Manny,"

"Then go away, Helena."

"Destin," I turn to get him to say something.

"Come back to me, let them sleep," he advises, scribbling. I creep back over, but sit on his side of the bench and wind my arms around his waist. Carefully, he pulls the blanket around us both, his hand resting on my hip, the other writing.

"It's good to have you back," I whisper. "I miss you awfully when you're gone."

He chuckled once. "As I miss all of you. How have your brothers been behaving?"

I say nothing and he continues with a sigh, "I'll have to have a talk with them, after all." It was a few seconds before he whispers, ceasing his scribbling and leaning down until his soft lips touch my forehead. "Did they try to touch you?"

I shiver, as I always do when he's so close to me. "No, Destin."

Destin backs away with a shallow nod, his dark eyes on me. He's always been my protector; my one ally in the house. "If they ever do, come to me." He said this too often, a habit he picked up shortly after father was injured. It was the only thing father ever directly asked of him; to make sure none of my brothers took me.

Destin was tall, taller than Calver, and his body was divine. His hair was dark, as was mother's, and curled slightly at the ends. He was handsome, with a face that moved just right, and every time he went into town, Calver would ask him, "Find yourself a pretty girl who can cook better than Helena!"

But then, I suppose, in Calver's eyes, every girl could do everything better than I.

Destin spoke softly to me then, dipping the quill into the ink bottle, "You're feet are freezing; have you been wearing the—,"

"The socks you bought me? Upstairs."

"Why aren't you wearing them now?"

"They're too far away," I argued in a pout, laying my head on the table, watching him write, "And you keep me warm."

His writing delayed, only slightly, then he continued to scrawl. "You shouldn't say such things, Helena," said Destin, his gaze avoiding me.

This confused me and I furrowed my brow at him, "But you do. I don't understand. Did I say something wrong?"

He sighed. "Get the bread, Helena. You must be hungry."

I was, so I stood and made my way to the cabinet. Inside, its shelves were bare save an armful of preservatives and few bottles of whiskey to keep us warm, in case we should get so cold. I took hold of a jelly jar and crossed over to the table.

As I spread jam across the stale bread, Destin watched me. His gaze drifted to the almost empty cabinets and lingered in dull contemplation. Seeing this, I snuck my foot under the blanket and our toes mingled for a moment. "Don't worry," I said, "The meat will last us for another month and you brought back plenty for the four of us."

"Five," he corrected, not bothering to look at Dod, laying in his bed. "There isn't enough for five."

My toes crept up his leg. Goose flesh followed. "You shouldn't say such things, Destin," I mocked him. He pulled his legs away from me. "You worry me, brother," I said, disappointed at how unresponsive he was to my morning chirp. "Every time you come home, you grow more and more distant to me. Why?"

His dark eyes caught me. I closed my mouth, though the question still hung there, in the air. "I can't—," he began, having trouble. Destin glanced away, folded his hands in front of his mouth, and paused for too long. "I can't provide for five people. At this rate, we won't make it to winter."

It was winter. Already, the cold crept into the floor and into our beds. Soon the boys would light the fireplace with what little they could find and would all three sleep together in one bed. I would sleep where the heat rose, in my attic, alone.

As always.

"We've made it before, Destin," I say, reaching and taking one of his hands. He stared at it solemnly, watching as my thumb rubbed against his knuckles. "We'll make it again."

"Helena," he said abruptly. I looked up at him, but he looked away. "We need to talk about—,"

"A diet of bread and jelly, that's what we need to talk about," Calver was up and boisterous, his booming voice drowning Destin out. "A man can only eat so much of it before it's not enough anymore. I'm going to go out back and see how the rabbit roasted last night." After sauntering out of bed, Calver, half naked, slipped on his trousers and threw a coat on. He was short, but strong, built like Dod used to be. He was blonde, as I was, and his chest was covered in golden curls and tufts. A beard was forming, and by the end of the winter, he'd have to sheer it off or else it'd weigh his head down.

He was in and out as quickly as always, leaving Destin and I alone. I looked to my oldest brother to await his subject he wanted to discuss, though all he said was, "He's not a man yet. Beard, hunting, and muscles aside, he's never touched a women. Doesn't need to go around acting so holy."

I studied his bitter complexion before asking, "Have _you_ ever touched a women?"

Immediately he frowned and went, "Of course."

"You're a liar," I grinned, tossing his hand back to him playfully, "Bet you haven't even talked to a girl—,"

His toes ran up my leg, a tickling sensation, and I squealed with surprise and delight that he had finally warmed up to my games. "I've talked to you, haven't I?" he smirks, rolling his eyes at me. "Now hush and eat. You're going to wake up Manson."

With bread in my mouth, I mutter, "_You're _going to wake up Manson."

Calver returned with a curse and threw a bloodied piece of rope onto the table. Destin's face had now gone back to its somber expression. "Damn coyotes. Destin, I want to start hanging the game up in the loft. They'll dry better there with the draft and the heat."

I yelped, "You can't!"

Destin agreed, never looking away from his younger brother, "That is Helena's room. They'll frighten her."

Calver placed a rough hand near mine on the table and leaned on it. "Then I can sleep up there with her if it frightens her that badly."

Things went quiet. Destin's face was the most daunting thing in the room, his dark eyes and his dark brows draw together in a silent glare. Calver reclined casually, acting as though he was confident in his suggestion, not backing down to Destin's obvious discomfort and anger. I felt small, as I always did, when the two of them had moments like these.

Out of all of my brothers, Calver was my biggest threat. He was father's favorite when he was awake; father never scolded him for looking at me oddly, as he did to Destin for even glancing my way. Because of this, Calver thought he could get away with murder. Destin was a brick wall that stood between Calver and I, one that I cowered behind daily. This was yet another reason I missed Destin so fiercely while he was gone. Calver had never tried anything, but he'd gotten away with his words.

"Make yourself useful," Destin advised lowly, "Go find us breakfast."

Calver looked down upon his older brother, watched as Destin went back to his writing angrily and quietly. Then, in a hushed voice, said, "I make myself useful every day; that's more than you can say."

But Destin heard him, I saw it, I saw the shadow pass behind his eyes as it so rarely did when he was angry and faintly wounded in his pride. He let Calver go, though, and merely sat his pen down quietly and stood, rolling the still-wet parchment up and tossing it into the fire place.

"What was it?" I asked him.

"A letter, Helena," he said. Then under his breath, something to himself.

"What was wrong with it?" I asked him.

He shot me an exasperated glance and I silenced, feeling suddenly very foolish. But Destin's looks were never hardened towards me for long. He broke within fleeting seconds and sighed, sitting down at the foot of Manny's bed, by the fireplace. Shaking Manson's foot, Destin muttered, "Up, now. The sun's in the sky."

Reluctantly, Manson rolled out of bed. His hair was short and dark like his eldest brothers, though it lacked the curl and instead fell flat. His nose was red from the cold and rounded cutely, as father's was. Both eyes were brown and big, always like a hurt dog, never learned like Destin's or steeled like Calver's.

"It's cold," he stated, stretching, "Can't we start the fire?"

"We will when we wash clothes."

Manson's eyes found me and traveled to the bread in my hands. "What happened to the rabbit?" he pounders aloud. Destin was quiet as he stripped Manson's sheets and moved to do the same to Calver's and his own. I answered, "Coyotes."

Manson's face fell and he looked miserable as he cut his own slice of bread and ate it slowly and blandly. "Can't we just kill and eat the coyotes."

"Tell that to Calver," muttered Destin, his back to us, "God knows he'd love the chance to kill something else."

"I don't think Coyote meat is any good," I tell Manson, who was staring questioningly at his oldest brother. "Somewhat like eating a vulture."

Manson mumbled at me, "You wouldn't know, Helena."

Destin turned then, with the blankets in his hands, his glare an iron fist that no one disputed. Manson looked away from him. "Our sister tells me your brother and you have been misbehaving while I've been away."

"She's a liar!" Manson yelps, "We haven't said anything to her!"

"You're the liar!" I defend, "Just last night Calver threatened to—,"

The blonde brother entered the room then, having overheard the last bit of the conversation, "You're full of shit, Helena. You just want Destin to coddle you. Or, at least, more than he already does."

"Enough," Destin shouted, tossing the blankets to the floor. His voice hardly ever rose, but now it did, and he reigned over the room. "Helena, up to your room. Calver, take Manson into the woods in search for game. Now!"

We dispersed slowly, angrily, hatefully, and I stayed, banished, in my attic until the other boys had left the house and were deep into the forest. Then, I leaned over the ledge of my loft and called down to my beloved older brother, "Destin?"

He was quiet, going back and across the room, collecting clothes and sheets on the floors and in the baskets. When he did not answer me, I asked, "Are you angry with me?"

A sigh came from below and I watched as he leaned against the table, his back straining. "No."

"Good," I smile, delighted. "I can't stand it when you're angry with m—,"

"Did you lie?"

My smile falls and I grip to the wood of the loft's floor. "Did I lie? To you?"

Another sigh and I see his head shake. He pushes himself from the table and walks to stand beside Dod's bed. "Never mind," he breathes, taking off the top two layers of Dod's blankets. "I believe you. How could I not? Calver constantly belittles you and Manson learns from him. I don't ever want you to think you're lesser than us, Helena. You aren't stupid and you are good enough. We wouldn't get along without you."

I felt tears well up in my throat. "May I come down now?" I manage, though there's a bubble in my throat. Destin turns around and looks up at me, a knowing smile on his face. He extends his arms to me.

Hurrying down my stairs, and run to him, throwing my frail arms around his waist. He's warm and he smells distinctly like himself, which I had missed and always miss when he goes on his trips. His hands are large and they rest on my back, his body craning to envelope me ever so slightly. My shoulders shake and I'm not sure what kind of tears I'm crying, but they fall into his thick clothes. My cheek rests on the tear in his shirt and I feel his skin against mine, hear his heart beat beneath me. Destin was my favorite.

"Alright," he chuckles, his hand brushing down my long hair. "No more of that. I need you to help me with Dod."

"Yes, Destin," I sniffle, wiping at my swollen eyes. He means he needs help moving him to one of the boy's beds while we strip his sheets to clean them. He's heavy, but not as much as he used to be. Dod is skin and bones now, his cheeks sunken in, his bones brittle. If he were awake, he'd never walk again, for danger of his legs breaking.

We heave him to Manson's bed and cover him with a couple of blankets we'd clean later. He doesn't stir, he can't. His eyes remain closed, those his heart beats just as Destin's did beneath my ears. He's alive, but he is not. It doesn't even bother me anymore.

Destin lit the fire and I went outside to fetch the caldron. My long socks are accompanied by my worn boots and my thickest dress, layered with an old jacket of Calver's that did not fit him any longer. The caldron sat in the barn, which was empty of any animals besides the carriage horses Destin used to go into down. Their names were Bet and Bottle, given to them by myself and Calver when we were young. They were kept alive by the food Destin bought them while he was in town, but he could afford only so much and still manage to feed the family. All of our other animals died because of this. Even the milk cow that put Dod to sleep had passed away months after her crime. The barn was quiet, as it always was, its old wood creaking with the wind and its metal roof straining against the layer of snow atop it. I walked down the main entrance then snuck into the side room where we kept the spare carriage, the caldron, the farm equipment, and the bear traps.

It sat in the corner, away from all other utensils. It was not easy to lift and carry, but I waddled with it out of the barn and into the cold sunlight that made everything piercingly white. Smoke rose from the chimney, which meant Destin had gotten a fire started. I trudged up to the door and tapped it with the toe of my shoe for Destin to open it. Only, a hand came up behind me and pushed the door open instead. I looked behind to see Destin staring down at me, a bucket of water in his other hand. We went to work quickly and quietly, him hooking the caldron above the fire and pouring the water in it portion by portion, me sorting the sheet from the blankets and readying the lye.

Once the water was boiling, I slipped in the sheets and the lye and stirred for a few minutes while Destin picked through his own breakfast and watched. Dod would need to be fed soon. We'd have to mix water with the bread and pour it down his throat. It wouldn't be enough. But it would have to make do.

Destin gets dressed after he finishes his breakfast. He had been wearing the same clothes he'd traveled in, but decided to change into something cleaner. His chest is bare of scars, like Calver's has. It's creamy and has no freckles or spots as Manson's does. His back is complicated with muscles, defined, many of them, even though he's only nineteen. He spends too much time finding a clean shirt; I keep looking at him. He's all I have to look at. Calver catches me staring often and embarrasses me when he smiles confidently. I don't stare anymore. But Destin never looks up when he's getting dressed; he doesn't have the arrogance to look up and see if anyone is staring.

He doesn't change trousers. He'll do that when I'm out of the house or deep into my loft. Sometimes I contemplate stealing a glance, just to see— but then I remember Dod downstairs, recall his booming anger and his threats of sin and hell and I turn away. I did not consider it a sin. I knew it was an oddity, for me to want to experience the sight that was Destin. But it did not feel like a damnable thing. Destin was my eldest brother, my beloved sibling, my only friend. He did not intimidate me like Calver or make me feel inferior, like Manson. He showed kindness to me and it pulled me into him.

But what I had said to him was no lie. He grew more and more distant the older we got and the more times he went into town. I suspected it was because he began to realize life outside of this desolate farmhouse was so much better and yearned to be with the townspeople. And could I blame him? I had begged him time and time again to let me go into town; to let me meet other human beings; to let me just have a taste of civilization and other girls and other boys. But Destin had an oddity of his own. He was overly anxious. He worried too much about things he needn't concern himself with, so much so that even the most insignificant of things—the amount of feed we had, the holes we would have to patch in clothes, the small illnesses that passed through and left quickly—consumed him, drowned him, suffocated him. Even now he kept glancing at the food cabinet, his eyes clouds of fret.

"Destin," I begin, and he looks at me as though I'd shaken him, "How was your trip this time?"

He slips a shirt over his head and then another for extra warmth. "Lonely," he admits. This reminds him of something and he stops all that he is doing and comes to sit down next to me, saying, "Helena, there's something we need to discuss."

I stop stirring the laundry and turn to face him, both of us on the little stools we sit on at night and sip tea leaves. His eyes are dark and his lashes are darker, taking my attention away from the concern inside of them. "You're almost eighteen. When I was eighteen, father told me I needed to start looking for a wife."

This both alarmed me and repulsed me. Destin? Get married? Calver had always joked about such things but I never assumed the thought had actually crossed my oldest brother's mind. He was a desolate being, even towards me at times. He enjoyed his privacy and savored his solitude. This was why he never brought anyone along with him on his trips; he preferred to go alone. The idea that he would wed himself to another person, to a stranger, and bring her into our home . . . would she share the attic with me, away from the other boys? Ah, no, that's a foolish thought. She'd share Destin's bed—

My face contorted with rancor.

He noticed and considered it to be me jumping to conclusions, "If you're ready, which I hope you are, it would be in our best interest to wed you to a well achieved gentlemen in the city. You'd be happier where you didn't have to wait on your next meal or slave to three men at a time, and he'd take care of you—,"

"You take care of me," I disrupt, my chest full of ice. "And I am not ready."

He looked reassured at first, but slowly that turned into distress. "I can't take care of you the way a husband could, Helena. You're a beautiful girl, and useful. You know how to cook and clean and even how to hunt and scout. You've been taught many things, many pleasing things that a man would find beneficial to himself and his family name. You'll have men lined up to marry you—,"

I shook my head and he stopped talking for a second. "Helena, please," he placed his hands on mine where they were folded in my lap. "I just want you to be happy; to be safe and secure."

But I felt that way here, with my brothers and with the cold. Going into town suddenly seemed less appealing to me, where husbands awaited and offered me a home away from Calver, away from Manson, and away from Destin. I could live without Calver and his threats, and I could stand a few days away from Manson and his irritating comments, but not Destin.

I wanted to tell him, so badly, that I'd miss him too harshly to marry someone far away. But the way he was looking at me, with the fret clouds in his eyes, I knew he wouldn't listen. "I know you do," I whisper, though it's all I can do not to sound heartbroken, "But I'd like to decide on my own when I'm ready."

I can hear the relieved smile in his voice as he pulls me into an embrace that's too bitter sweet for me to take pleasure in as I usually do. "I know you'll make the right decision, Helena."

oOo

**Next chapter includes: explicit sex scene, adult themes, incest**


End file.
